


Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Disabled Character, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Healing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recovery, Sea imagery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: He feels it, this world in his arms, in his eyes, in his heart. It isn't perfect, but it doesn't have to be. It simply has to be real. This world is wide awake. And it makes him bolder, it makes him brave. He wants to remember every single detail. He wants to be here. And he wants to tell him.(It hurts. It might always hurt. But he doesn't have to be perfect either. He simply has to be.)A story about being broken and being brave and being still here.





	Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BranwellBronte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranwellBronte/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Heartbeat Messages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656619) by [BranwellBronte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranwellBronte/pseuds/BranwellBronte). 



> All credit for the inspiration for this fic goes to almaelson and their work. [Heartbeat Messages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656619) is a sad but beautiful love story, and my favourite thing about it is that it can be read as a raw, real account of coping with depression and anxiety, which I find very relatable. Thank you so much for sharing your words and for letting me write something inspired by them! <3
> 
> "Fix-it of sorts" is apparently my go-to tag for this fandom. In this story's case, real life is depressing enough, so I felt that writing a happy-ish (or rather, less sad) ending was appropriate.
> 
> The title is taken from [I Am In Need of Music](https://allpoetry.com/I-Am-In-Need-Of-Music), by Elizabeth Bishop.

Everything is white and loud. And the world won't stop spinning. It won't stop screaming. The ice screams and the wind screams or perhaps it's him. It's him. It's his heart crying out loud, calling out for him. Without him. No, never without him. He can't bear it, he can't be --

And Harry hears that damn bell in his head, always calling him, calling him back. Here, here. He hears the beat of his heart. He hears the ticking of the infirmary clock. He needs to focus. He has to be here. He has to be here, for him. And he is back in his head, back on the ship, and he ties his surgeon apron, _quickly, quickly_ , and he thinks of nothing, of nothing that isn't him.

Him, him, and the beat of his heart.

He prays for steel nerves. He prays for _him_. And the prayer says don't go, don't _go_.

No. No, he won't go.

*

It's a long time until Graham can open his eyes, let alone speak. He wakes up and there is nothing. And he remembers, and there is darkness and there is pain. His head hurts. And his hands shake. The scars make a mask for him, and he can't smile. He can't hide. He can't lie. And he is lost, almost lost. And the anxiety comes creeping in, and it mocks him and it laughs and it lies. And maybe all that's left of him is this broken shell of a body. He doesn't want to be this ugly reminder of hurt, of death. But what if he has nothing left, nothing left to give him?

And that loop of pain in his head wants to overtake him, and it feels like drowning. But Harry knows. He _knows_. He sits with him, right here. He is worried and tired and sad, so sad. But he is here. Yes, he is still here. And there are no lies between them. No. They promised. And he takes Graham's hands, as if to say _look at me, look at me_. He keeps them still, close to his heart. Harry's fingers find him, they touch his scars, deliberately. They trace a rough map across his face. They touch his forehead softly, softly. He doesn't look away. He whispers gently, gently, through the pain. And he wipes his tears away. He reaches him. He brings him back.

It hurts, and he can barely move. He stumbles over the words. And he avoids the puddles and the portholes, and Harry helps him to cover all the mirrors. It hurts, yes, it hurts. But he is here. The pain grounds him, it keeps him right here. The scars say that he is alive. And he can breathe now. He can breathe, breathe in, breathe in the ice and the cold, and breathe in the life too. He can huddle close to Harry, with one hand over his, and one hand over his heart. And Graham can still see himself in his eyes, and he is still beautiful there. The shape of his heart, reflected there, is still the same. He is still _himself_. And maybe that's all that matters. He can listen to his heartbeat, strong and steady like the sea. He can listen, listen and hold on. And perhaps he can bear it now. Yes, he can bear it.

*

Out here, this world is still big and strange and unknown. It still hurts sometimes. It's still sad, so sad, and he can't fix it. But it's the right shape somehow. And he wants it. He still wants this world, this life. He wants to belong here, to exist in this small, tender place where they both are, where for a moment there is no emptiness or cruelty. And they are not alone. They have found each other, a path, a prayer, a safe, safe harbour in this world. Close, close together, they fit here perfectly, not misplaced anymore. No, never again. No hiding, no masks. Only little tears, fierce and sharp. Like joy, infinite, infinite.

Here, here, still here. Here, in his arms, swaying softly, like the ships. Here, close to him, close to his heart and the quiet song within, and all the secret colours in his eyes. The small winter sun in the sky, like a mirage, like love. He sleeps safe, sleep to its rhythm. Sometimes he dreams of birds and flowers and soft, joyful things. And he wakes, and finds a life more beautiful than any dream. Here, everything is good and warm and bright, and kisses soft like feathers cover his eyes. Out here, everything sings and shines and says _i love you i love you i love you_. I love you, even when -- even _when_.

Even when he is lost, Harry finds him. His kiss follows the path of the scars. Yes, still beautiful. Still here. And if Graham can smooth over that scratch on his spirit, make it less sad, he will. He will heal the birds in his mouth and his hands. He will be here, for him. The beat of his heart will be stronger. And everything he does will be for him alone. Everything, _everything_.

He listens to his heartbeat. Like the sea, like the sea.

This white world out here may look like nothingness, but it is not. It is not. There is still that bit of poetry, meant only for the two of them. It's cold out here, but it feels right. It feels like a shelter, like a home. Like this language between them, this language of silent words and gentle hands and hearts laid bare. It has a beautiful sound, beating like a drum. Like an anchor, like a lantern. It is here. And it beats out the message and it spells out the meaning. Safely, every hour and every day, over and over, it says _mine, mine, mine_ , like a call to be answered, like a course to be followed. Like a treasure that glitters and shines bright, so bright. They've made it happen. They've made it, together. Broken but brave. Free and never alone. Here, still here.

And he wants to hold on, hold on, hold on.

They are here, here somewhere. Graham doesn't really know where _here_ is. It is not Heaven, because there is no pain in Heaven. But it doesn't matter. He is here. Harry is here, too. And this is what he believes in. This is what he can offer. He is happy here, cradled and sheltered from the cold. His heart has found a safe space to lay upon. And the light out here is strange, but it is bright and it doesn't hurt too much. It takes the fear away, and replaces it with stars.

He feels it, this world in his arms, in his eyes, in his heart. It isn't perfect, but it doesn't have to be. It simply has to be real. This world is wide awake. And it makes him bolder, it makes him brave. He wants to remember every single detail. He wants to be here. And he wants to tell him.

(It hurts. It might always hurt. But he doesn't have to be perfect either. He simply has to _be._ )

If the scars run across him like a passage, then it doesn't matter, because that passage is good. Better than good. It's worth finding. At the end of it there's a call that has been heard and answered, and a heart that has seen and felt and followed that course. And it's quiet at last, like the sea right in this moment. It's warm within him, like this dream. Bound, bound to him, in this rhythm, this heartbeat, this nearly perfect peace.


End file.
